


Ethereal Savagery

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Lovers' Reconciliation, Revenge-Killing, Slightly graphic descriptions of violence, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are afraid of me.  You have <em>always</em> been afraid of me.” She whispers, softly. “Afraid, because I know you better than anyone, more intimately and completely than anyone ever will, and you have always had the fear that one day, someday, it will all become too much and I will leave.  These past weeks, you have clung to me so tightly, with such oppressive possession, because you cannot be rid of that fear.  And if I leave, you will go back to the place you were, when he took me away and we were apart.  And that place terrifies you.  It was a place without control, without order…without me.  I am the only person in this life who can take you back to that place.  All I would have to do is walk away, and no matter how hard you fought, no matter how furiously you resisted, you would return there.  And it frightens you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ethereal Savagery

**Author's Note:**

> Directly following the end of "Judge and Jury"; definitely some AU mixed in here (namely character death) set within the season premiere's events.

Two more days pass with heavy silence between them, distance employed once more, and the cycle has begun yet again. She cries herself to sleep the first night, nursing the fractured pieces of her heart while cursing her weak and pitiful self, because she has no one else to blame. The following day, she awakens to the newspaper left at the front gate—the paperboy has either been uninformed or simply refuses to change his route, but at least this ensures she is kept up to date on the city’s most recent developments—announcing the unexpected and spontaneous retirement of Gillian Loeb as police commissioner. Sarah Essen, the paper declares, will take his place as commissioner, which means James will have his new job back soon, if he doesn’t already. She tries to be happy for him. It doesn’t work. Her heart stubbornly refuses to feel anything but sorrow, grief, despair…and rage.

She stares a moment more at the paper. The picture they selected for Commissioner Loeb’s farewell address depicts a stern, upright gentleman, dressed formally in a suit with his glasses perfectly set upon his face. He looks respectable. He wears the guise of a man bent on delivering justice throughout Gotham, on defending and protecting his city and its citizens. He looks…like a good man.

Inside, she slowly, methodically, and patiently rips the paper with her bare hands. First, long ribbons of ink-stamped paper; then small squares, and then she uses her fingernails to scar and obliterate the squares into shredded fragments, which she deposits into the fire. They dissolve to ash, dissipate to nothing but a sour memory, in the time it takes her to blink.

The day passes in the same silence; she can hear Victor in the library, downstairs in the kitchen, and in the study. She wonders, as she often has, if he misses her uncle. She wonders if he misses _her_. If he truly misses her, if he is mourning the slow and agonizing death of what they once had, as she does.

_“Prove your decision.”_

There is a very hurt, very angry part of her that spits on those words. She shouldn’t have to prove anything. She endured a great trauma. She suffered through a violent ordeal. She crawled half-dead back to the city and found him. _Him_ , not James, not Edward, not a stranger on the streets. She came back to _him_. Have the past few weeks been difficult? Of course they have. Has she perhaps been cruel, in denying him any kind of closeness? Yes, she has. She atoned for it, sought his forgiveness thrice over. She offered herself to him, without reservations, determined to put the past to bed, and he accused her of playing a game.

The anger is blinding. The rage and frustration is oppressing. This room is too small, this house too confining…she needs to breathe. She needs…she just needs to leave.

She doesn’t tell him, doesn’t even announce her departure. Let him think _that_ is her answer. It’s childish, it’s a poor reflection of his actions days earlier, but it seems that is their goal, as of late: hurt each other, as much as possible.

This is not how it’s supposed to be. None of this. _None_ of this is right. It’s all wrong. How did things come to this? Her life began when they met. Her world suddenly made sense when he entered it. Maybe she was never so star-struck that she believed the sun rose and set with him, but still…he made the sun rising and setting worthwhile, a new day with him in it was one she didn’t have to dread or fear. He made her smile. He made her laugh. He made her feel. He made her _happy_ , and now…

It won’t end like this. She refuses to let it end this way. She has fought too long and too hard for this, for him, for what they have. She will _not_ stand aside and let it die.

The city streets are dark, empty, and the air is cold. The rains from three nights linger heavily, a thick mist curling around every corner, highlighting each building, and cling to the skin as she walks onward. No one is gathered to celebrate the new commissioner or offer the former a standing ovation. No one cares. Someone is in office one minute and then out the next. People come and go in this city. It makes no difference. Each and every one is the same, in the eyes of Gotham and her people.

She wonders if it must always be this way. If this city will always be a place of eternal complacency, a place of engrained indifference; if this will be the land of eternal winter, where people come to sacrifice their hopes, their dreams, their very desire to live and thrive. She wonders if Gotham, truly, is the place where people come to die, and why it must be this way.

She walks for an hour, perhaps two. There is no particular destination in focus, but when she finds herself outside this place, an apartment complex in the heart of downtown, she is unsurprised. It makes sense that she would venture here, even if she doesn’t know why she would want to come here. Well, no…she does. She does know. There is but one reason why she would want to come here. _Only one…_

There are two guards posted outside the door—not the main entrance, but in the hallway, guarding their master with guns and careful attention to all who approach at this late hour. A woman alone does not warrant immediate concern; they pay her little mind, at first. Until, that is, she comes closer. She is saddened on their behalf, at such lackluster dedication. People in this city should know, better than anyone, be it man or woman or even child…no one is untouched by the darkness. Everyone is suspect. It is a terrible truth, but it is the reality.

They let her get too close, and they never see the knife. Not until it’s too late.

***

Loeb stands in the doorway, the open frame between kitchen and hallway, and for a moment they say nothing to each other. She perches atop the counter, legs crossed demurely at the ankle, hands braced on the granite-top; he stares, taking her in with wide eyes, sleep stolen by shock, and swallows tightly. When he finally does speak, it is to declare her dead, as though such is the magic declaration to steal her soul, to sap life from her beating heart, and she will wither away before his eyes. If only life were so simple.

“As I am sure you can see, Mr. Loeb,” she answers, very softly, very patiently, as though addressing a young child, “I am not.”

His eyes drop to her right hand, where the knife still gleams wet with blood, and then dart towards the door. She shakes her head. “If you wish to see them, they are right around the corner. You should know, however, they are not responsive, so calling for them will only disturb your neighbors.”

He swallows again, hands fisting at each side. “What do you want?”

“To see this city welcome the sun, just for one day.” She answers, in a rather dreamy tone, like a little girl reciting the greatest dreams of her young heart. “To watch her people open their eyes to the filth and corruption that has sickened this city like a parasite, rise up, and take control of their lives. To live in a world where people see evil and fight back, rather than stand to the side, look on, and do nothing.”

She slides off the counter with grace, shoes barely making a sound on the tiled floor. “I want the four weeks of my life spent caged in a stainless steel room, chained to the ceiling, while a monster carved pieces of flesh from my body, returned to me. I want to have never heard of or experienced the hideous and vile creature that was Jason Skolimiski. I want to be as physically whole and unmarred as I was before he snatched me from my home. And,” she adds, as an afterthought, “I want the past two months to be erased from existence, wake up in bed, wrapped tight in the arms of my beloved, and go about my life as though it will never be ripped out from under me.”

She shrugs, taking three more steps. “But that is the work of magicians, who do not exist. And it is the will of God, who does nothing without a purpose, and thus I can only conclude He wanted me to experience every moment I have for a reason. So, really, what I _want_ is completely irrelevant, Mr. Loeb. What I _need_ is the greater question, with a far more simplistic answer.”

Loeb steps back; she steps forward, the knife resting between the splayed fingers of both hands. One holds the hilt in the palm, and the other keeps the blade on a pivot, guided by the tip of her middle finger. Two steps back; three more steps forward. _Dance with me, little mouse._ He swallows, yet again, eyes fixated on the knife. “You think you’re here to kill me?”

“Think? Oh, goodness, no.” she shakes her head. “I _know_ I am here to kill you.”

“You’ve never killed anyone in your life, little girl.” He says, but his voice trembles. “You don’t know how.”

“Not know how to kill?” her eyebrows lift. “Mr. Loeb, only a fool would make such a ridiculous claim. In this city, killing is everything from a way of life to a refined form of art. Killing is simple. So very, very simple. Living with yourself after the act, however… _that_ is the true test.”

“You don’t—”

“I will thank you to not make assumptions about my life, Mr. Loeb.” She interrupts, with an empathic forward step and bite to her tone. “You know nothing about me. You know nothing about who I am, or what I have done. It is both inaccurate and highly presumptuous to state, with such arrogance, that you know, beyond any doubt, I will not kill you because I do not know _how_ to kill.”

When one tactic fails, utilize another: such is the basic rule of survival instinct. In most cases, she is sure it works quite well. This is not one of those situations, and she could have told him as much, should he have given her the chance. Alas, he did not, and so now she is subject to more flustered protests. “Let’s talk about this.” He says, voice quivering almost as much as his hands.

She blinks. “There is nothing to talk about.”

“You don’t have to do this.” He says. _I do not **have to** do anything_ , she could but doesn’t say, _I am **choosing** to do this._ “Killing me won’t get you what you want.” _What I want does not matter._ “Let’s talk, and see if we cannot work something out. I can—”

“Mr. Loeb,” she finally says, with great exasperation, “as usual, you are not listening. There is nothing you can give me. You have nothing I want.”

“You don’t know that.” He stammers. “I…I can give you—”

Her grip on the knife tightens, and the blade pricks her fingertip. She sighs, sucks at the tiny red dot for a moment, then straightens and fixes him with a look. “I am not my uncle.” She finally says, though with a touch of remorse, one that is quickly replaced with a low growl as she continues, “Nor am I Oswald Cobblepot. You cannot bargain with me. You cannot bribe me. You are making the assumption—as I previously advised you _not_ to do—that I am looking to gain something by threatening your life, or obtain something of value through your death.”

Another two steps brings her closer to his personal space; he realizes, a second too late, he is backed into a literal corner, and she has the blade six inches from his face. He could dart to the side, try to escape, but she would cut him in the process. And she is blocking the only exit, back through the hall, out the door, and perhaps to safety. For a moment, she reads his expression, the frantic motions of his eyes, and understands his thought. She is young, and a woman; he is older, a man, and perhaps he could take her by simple brute strength.

Her knee locks and angles upward, sharp, swift, deliberate, and catches him hard in the lower gut. He doubles over. She uses the other leg to deliver a blow to his head, enough to topple him to the floor. His hands scramble, looking for…for something, she supposes, but it doesn’t matter. She has her full weight on him, one knee digging down into his sternum, knife beneath his jaw, at his throat, pressing until he chokes and gags for breath.

“Sometimes, things are much simpler, Mr. Loeb.” She murmurs. “Sometimes, people just want you to die.”

***

When he finds the body, it’s still warm. The blood hasn’t even dried yet. The skin is still soft, still clinging to the last moments of elasticity; rigor hasn’t set in. The former commissioner hasn’t been dead for more than half an hour, if that. Which means Iris was just here. He only barely missed her.

If asked, he couldn’t explain how he knew where to find her, what paths he knew to take to follow in her steps and track her movements. He just knew. Sometimes—more often than not—he has thought, perhaps, this strange thing called _intuition_ is how Iris finds him, time and time again, when she otherwise shouldn’t be able to. He wonders if they haven’t established a deeper connection than people realize. Is this how they always find each other? Is this the protective veil shrouding both of them from Gotham’s cruel devises? Is this the steel-cored binding that stretches and stretches and yet never breaks, and never fails to bring her back to his arms, and him back to hers?

He isn’t a superstitious man, and he holds little credence in Fate. But there are times when he really does wonder.

At first glance, there is a sense of deep disappointment in this work. It was too quick. The jugular was slit; Loeb probably bled out in ten minutes, at most. Much too quick. Loeb was to die screaming, suffering with great anguish, sobbing for mercy. Not this. This is too neat, too tidy. He would be within his right to punish Iris for this. Loeb was his to deal with. She stole him.

But…as disappointing as the lack of torture is, there is something undeniably beautiful about this. The elegant craftsmanship, the surgical precision, a smooth and clean line where the blade cut through skin like butter, found the desired artery, and did the deed. It was too quick, too painless a punishment to fit the crime, yes…but it is just _so beautiful_. His inner eye crafts a vision, imagining how it must have been, how she must have looked: knife in hand, eyes piercing in the darkness, a flash of metal before it disappeared into living flesh, the pulse of warm blood rising up…

He leaves the former commissioner’s body and returns to the other two, a pair of hired guns lying across the entry way. In the dim light, he can make out blood trails, thick and smeared, leading inward from the hallway to their final resting place. The trails are smudged, disturbed in some areas, and there are tiny imprints in the stains. Heel prints. Of course; Iris probably kicked and rolled them across the floor before they could completely bleed out in the hall. He smirks, just a bit, at her thought process. No doubt she loathed the thought of neighbors waking up to such an unseemly sight. It is, after all, a terrible way to start the morning.

From the apartment complex, he walks down the streets, relishing the brisk chill of late night slowly transforming into early morning. The sky is still dark, broken only by the street lights mounted above. He doesn’t think too much about where he’s going. He just walks. In due time, he’ll be lead to the right place. He always finds her. She always finds him. It’s just the way things are.

In blanketing shadows, she nearly appears just one more, lingering at the fountain: just as dark, just as motionless, lingering upon white-wash concrete beside still waters. Her hair is loose, a thick veil draped around her shoulders and falling down her back, brushed gently in the wind. She says nothing, even when he knows she must feel his gaze on her, when she must hear his approaching footsteps, until he comes to stand at her side. Now, he can see her fingertips caressing the water, ripples following each touch, one after another: a multitude dancing together, spreading wide, then fading to nothing.

“I owe you nothing, Victor.” Iris finally says, blue eyes intently focused on the abstract art she is creating. “I do not have to prove anything to you. And I do not deserve the blame you are placing on my shoulders for this. You have the right to be frustrated with what has happened these past weeks, but you do not have the right to punish me this way. I have been hurt, time and time again. I was taken from my home, locked in a cage, tortured and tormented, and wished for death more times than I can recall. I have the right to grieve, to need space, to need to heal myself in my own time and in my own ways. I would have let you in, sought your touch, in time. I proved as much, when I _begged_ for your touch the other night. You threw me away, accused me of playing a child’s game with you, because _my_ time was not _your_ time and you wanted to punish me for it. But it remains, you had no right to tell me when I was or was not ready to seek comfort in you again. What I endured for weeks, alone and afraid and against my will, is what you do to your prey, all the time. And you enjoy it, just as he did. In another life, it could have been your hands violating me in that way. It could have been your name, your face…your very existence that I came to hate beyond comprehension.”

He says nothing, because there is nothing to say. She’s right. He knows she’s right, and he doesn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise and consequently spark another vicious argument between them. He’s tired of it. All of it. This is not how it’s meant to be. Not with her.

He slowly lowers to the ground beside her, holding the silence. She dips her fingers deeper into the water, clenches them into a fist, and then lifts it back. Water dribbles free, between her locked grip, and even in the poorly illuminated shadows, he can see a dull pink discoloration in the water. There are dark shapes cast across her cheek and lower lip. Almost like shadows. _Almost._

“I think,” she slowly continues, barely audible over the water droplets, “you knew this. You have known it all along. You have known it, and you are afraid of it. You are afraid of _me_.”

He can feel her gaze on him, steady, calm, a soft accusation to match her words. “You have always been afraid of me.” She whispers, softly. “Afraid, because I know you better than anyone, more intimately and completely than anyone ever will, and you have always had the fear that one day, someday, it will all become too much and I will leave. These past weeks, you have clung to me so tightly, with such oppressive possession, because you cannot be rid of that fear. And if I leave, you will go back to the place you were, when he took me away and we were apart. And that place terrifies you. It was a place without control, without order…without me. I am the only person in this life who can take you back to that place. All I would have to do is walk away, and no matter how hard you fought, no matter how furiously you resisted, you would return there. And it frightens you.”

Silence, once more. He remembers the last time they sat here, at this same place, when she was preparing to step from one season of life into another. He remembers the way she felt, young, fragile, still so very innocent, when he pulled her into his arms. It was a protective embrace, holding her in willing captivity as he contemplated releasing her to freedom, to a world she was much too young to enter and unprepared to face. She came to him without reservation then. She never hesitated, never questioned, never resisted. These hypothetical scenarios—walking away, leaving him behind, severing the bonds between them—were never even a consideration. She was completely his. Only his.

When his arms wrap around her, she doesn’t fight or jerk away. When he pulls her close, back to his chest, and rests his cheek to her curls, she sighs—nearly inaudible, a wisp of sound to his ears—and one hand curls around his, fingers fitting tight together. He presses his face into her dark hair, drawing in her scent, drowning in her closeness. Clinging. Clutching. A lifeline in the storm.

“ _Are you afraid of me, my tiger?_ ” she whispers; the Russian is much softer from her tongue, smoothing out the harsh guttural sounds. He has missed this, these moments when she casually drifts from one language to the next, just because she can.

“ _I’m terrified of you._ ” He answers in turn, tightening his hold, just a little. She responds by bringing the other hand over his, securing both hands in hers with an unyielding grasp. A prison, of sorts, but a beautiful one. A prison cell of porcelain skin, smooth and slender limbs, warmth and softness, perfection even amongst flaws. “ _You alone could destroy me._ ”

“ _And you are so certain I one day will._ ” He vaguely registers a relaxed hold on his hand, and then the warm press of her palm to his cheek, fingers gliding across skin without pause, stroking, caressing, repossessing. “ _You refuse to consider we could have something else. Something more._ ”

“ _There is nothing more for us._ ”

Her eyes find him, casting a look beyond her shoulder, and she slowly turns until their eyes meet on equal level. “ _There is here, just as there is now._ ”

It’s too simple, too ignorant of so many other things and people and mitigating factors, but her closeness, and her hands on his face, make it so very easy to believe, to forget complications. “You made me so proud tonight, sweet girl.” He whispers, fingers coiling around slender wrists. _Here and now…_ “So very proud. What you did…”

Her smile is beautiful. So very beautiful. Soft, subtle, elegant, and his inner eye retrieves the vision of Loeb’s throat, the open wound darkly distinct even amongst the drying red stain across his flesh. “I pleased you, my tiger?”

“It was beautiful, Iris.” He whispers, kissing her brow, several times, burying fingers in her dark locks. “So beautiful. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you bring me with you?”

She shakes her head. “You would have wanted him for yourself.”

_Yes_ , he would have; he tells her as much, but it wouldn’t have lasted. The moment he’d have seen her with a knife in hand, slender fingers wrapped firm and steady around its hilt, blood in her eyes, promises of death on her sweet lips… _how_ could he have refused her? How could he have wanted anything else but to watch and let the gloriousness of such a moment crash over him and burrow deep within his memory?

A thin, mildly exasperated smile teases her lips up against his collarbone. “I commit murder, and you become amorous.” She sighs, tucking her head beneath his chin. “It will be necessary to eliminate half this city, just to have you as often as I want.”

A shudder runs unchecked through his limbs. “Iris…” he breathes, exhaling tightly, “Don’t put images in my head. There are enough in there already without your contributions.”

With the grace and sensuality of a cobra, she rises up, meeting his gaze with glimmering pools of blue, with hands sliding around to his front, tracing shirt buttons with slow precision. “Wanting beyond coherency, beyond sanity…” she echoes; he knows for a fact those words did _not_ sound so damned erotic from his lips, “Show me what that looks like, Victor. I am so very curious.”

“Iris,” he’s cut off when she kisses him, teeth scraping his lower lip, tongue flicking out in a teasing gesture, “…public.”

“Hmmm?” she’s nuzzling her way from his lips, down his jaw to neck, fingers already negotiating with the top buttons. It is incredibly unfair and should be unlawful for her to be this distracting. He’s a grown man, and a very intelligent one at that; his brain should not be packing up and taking a happy vacation the second she touches him.

“Public.” He repeats, pulling fragments of his dwindling logic back together. “This is not the place for…” her mouth rests at his pulse, teasing with her tongue and marking with her teeth, and he briefly loses focus, “… _that_. This. Any of this.”

“If you are so deeply against it,” Iris replies, tone silky smooth and too smug for her own good, the little minx, while settling herself in his lap, “then, by all means, stop me.”

“Vixen,” he accuses, nerves thrumming with anticipation as her hands continue working with his shirt; unlike the other night, she doesn’t employ the patience to unbutton to his waistband. She gets it halfway open, jerks the fabric free, and then yanks until the buttons yield. A quiet curse follows, when the cold air hits his bare and over-heated skin, and then he groans, when her mouth continues its downward path. Yes. _Yes_ …his scars, her mouth, finally.

She hums thoughtfully, flicking her tongue over one set, at his right pectoral, “I rather you think you enjoyed that, Mr. Zsasz. Would you like me to continue?”

He holds his silence valiantly, until her teeth press down into another set. It’s not enough to break the scar tissue, but she could have, with just a little more pressure, and the thought alone… “Get it.” He exhales, shifting back, balanced on one arm while the other nestles its hand in her hair. “My pocket…get it. Use it.”

There are no questions or requests for clarification, and he knows it’s probably quite concerning she knows him so well. “Cut,” she breathes, fingers slipping nimbly into his back pocket, slowly withdrawing a knife, and dangling it lightly in front of him, “or scar?”

“Cut.” He leans forward, kissing her for a reckless moment; when they part, there’s blood on his lips from where he bit her.

“Where?”

“Your choice.” Another kiss, and this time she returns the bite. “Just do it. Now. As many times as you want. Any place you want. Just…just do it.”

Her eyes are blazing with primal hunger, dark and hungry and commanding. Submission will not be the name of her game, not tonight. Tonight, she intends to own him, claim him, whether he likes it or not. For the sake of pride, he should resist, but she’s holding the knife, slender fingers secure in place, eyes glittering like a serpent’s, and then, with a flick of the wrist, the blade flashes across his stomach, leaving a thin line of red and a sharp sting radiating across the nerves. He growls and kisses her, twice. “Again.”

She smiles—no, _smirks_ into the next kiss, by her own instigation this time; another line appears across his left shoulder, then another down the middle of his chest, and then another across his shoulder blades. Each one is light, quick, no more scarring than a paper cut. When she is satisfied with what has been made, she begins devoting special attention to those on his front, lips and tongue placing sweet friction on the open wounds, and his nerves are worked up in a frenzy. _More. **More.** Don’t stop. Don’t you dare—_

“ _Iris_ …” he hisses, fingers scraping over the concrete, when she pauses and slowly sits upright once more, “…don’t stop.”

She hums again, kissing his shoulder slowly, without any rush. “Tell me,” she finally says, setting the blade tip to his skin, twirling idly, “who you belong to.”

He doesn’t have much pride left, but he has enough to respond to her comment accordingly, and with far less civility than he would usually employ. She barely blinks, and simply pulls the knife away, letting it play between fingers while she gives him a patient look. “Tell me, Victor.” She murmurs. “Or I will stop.”

“Iris—”

“One little word, my tiger.” She’s crooning at him; it’s both highly demeaning and somehow still incredibly arousing. “Perhaps a few more, if you are so inclined and capable of speaking in semi-coherent sentences. Is that so much to ask?”

“You,” he growls, “are the wickedest creation ever brought into existence.”

She shrugs again, setting the tip to his lower lip. “You have only yourself to blame for that, my tiger.” She presses, just a little, and the skin yields with a stinging burst of pain. “ _You_ raised me.”

His next response dies when she kisses him, when her tongue laps delicately at the split in his lip, teasing, coaxing, inviting him to respond. It’s too easy to comply, the bane of a weakened soul caught in a succubus’ grasp without resistance, now supplicant with her will and her bidding. The abyss opens, seeking his surrender, whispering promises should he fall, should he forfeit the battle and just…

“Yours.” He whispers, chasing her for another kiss, and another, and then drags his mouth down the smooth line of her jaw, a thin metallic line smeared across white skin. “I’m yours.”

Iris purrs, tilting her head a bit, running both hands down his chest. “Finally.” She sighs, shifting against him eagerly, soft skin and warm weight teasing him; the clothing barriers no longer a minor annoyance when he wants to feel her skin with the same urgency his lungs need to draw breath. “All mine. Mine and mine alone…”

He growls again, biting at her neck and shoulder through the shirt, hissing his insistent need to see her, to touch bare skin, to have these damned things away and out of the way _now_. It takes a minute, but then he registers the feel of something being pressed into his hand. He brushes fingers over it, examining the shape blindly before recognizing it. With another growl, this one satisfied, he takes the knife, sets it to her neckline, and makes a clean slice down the middle. He’ll worry about her being half-naked in the middle of the night later. Right now, he could care less.

“My sweet girl,” he breathes, kissing an urgent path down her bare chest, balancing her with a hand at mid-back, “Mine. My perfect beauty. My wolf in the night.”

Her fingers scratch lightly down his neck, settling between his shoulder blades and pressing down. “My ache for you has not subsided.” She breathes, lips hovering at his ear, teeth nipping with emphasis. “Do not torture us any longer, my tiger.”

A strange, inexplicable, yet very prominent giddiness takes him, without warning, stretching his mouth in a broad grin. Yes. _Yes._ Let this be her answer, then. To the city and her people, every last one of them. Let each one hear the breathless cries, the wordless whispers, falling loose from her lips; let them wander nearby and see her body come alive in his arms, her hands claw down his back, thin lines of red intersecting, crossing into a tangled web across his skin. Let them see. Let them all see, and let them know.

“Iris…” he breathes, scraping teeth along her throat, “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting. Waiting for this. To have you, all of you, all to myself.”

He takes hold of her hips, crushing them together, taking without mercy, without gentleness, and the feeling that runs through him when she wraps herself close, molds their bodies together, and kisses to rival his ferocity, is unmatched. Yes, yes, yes…this is her true face, a wolf carefully hidden within a woman’s delicate flesh, with teeth sharp and white, claws fit to rip and tear, a cunning mind and a hunter’s ruthlessness. Elegant destruction. Ethereal savagery. His wolf. His mate. _Mine. All mine._

“I finally have you, my love.” He kisses her shoulder, again, and again, and again, “Now I want them. All of them. Don’t hold me back. Don’t restrain me, or cage me, or limit me. Give me the city. Give me those who threaten you, who speak against you, who would happily see you returned to the grave. Give them to me, and I will annihilate them. Every…last…one.”

A shiver racks her body, shared between them, so violent he feels it within his bones, and her head falls back with hair slipping and sliding free from her shoulders. He groans, deeply, lips pressed firm to her clavicle, as she commandeers his pace, catching him off-guard, riding him with reckless urgency, hands taking hold of the skin she finds and clutching for dear life. She’s speaking, but not in English. She has slipped back into her native Russian, and while he can’t comprehend most of it, the breathless tone and guttural rasp on her tongue translates the general message quite nicely.

“Say yes.” He whispers, urgency coating his own voice, saturating his words, so close, so close… “Promise me, Iris. Give them all to me. Set me free, Love. Give what the rest denied me. Give me freedom. Unleash me. Say you will. _Say it_.”

Her lips part, but what comes out is a broken, breathless cry, half a scream, and her grip on him tightens, nails scratching like a cat in heat, arms locking in place, hips riding out her release. The sight, the sound, the way she feels against and around him…it’s too much. It’s too damn much.

His hands bruise her hips, clenching down to hold her in place while he drives desperately toward his peak, to the edge, to the sweet abyss of empty thoughts and the intoxicating haze of release. Iris cries quietly, nearly sounding pained, but her body is a direct contradiction, holding tight to him, yielding herself to his need. When he finally finds the edge and falls over it, headfirst, his teeth clench down into her shoulder, sinking deep, to muffle the animal howl that erupts from his throat. He tastes blood. She screams.

***

The fire is low in its hearth; beyond the manor grounds, the pale tendrils of dawn slowly stretch outward, leaking through the dark of night. Iris lies on the sheets, naked, bruises visible on her skin, bite mark dark at the edges, smeared with dried blood. His fingertips brush slowly over the damage, a ghosting touch. He wonders if he should feel guilty, but whether he _should_ or _should not_ is irrelevant, because he doesn’t. He has marked her, again, as his. It will heal, leave only a small scar, if any, but each time he kisses her in that spot, he will remember. And so will she.

He sits upright, sheets pooled loosely at his waist, and runs the touch downward, from shoulder to elbow to wrist; the silence lingers a moment more between them, while he ponders. She never answered him. It isn’t as though he necessarily needs her to—he has no reason to believe she would ever deny him—but the spoken word makes it real, and he wants it. Selfishly, desperately, mind and ears greedy, wants it.

“Iris,” he says, speaking slowly, eyes tracing her skin, covetous gaze, “set me free. Set me free, release me, never restrain me again…” he swallows, tightly; these next words are already burning his tongue, before he even gives them life, and it takes another minute, while he negotiates with his pride, before he finally finishes with, “and I will spare him.”

Her response is a ripple of surprised tension, then a slow shift of limbs, head tilting upward, and pale eyes seeking him out in the lamp light. “What?”

His pride tries for a second round; he knocks it upside the head and shoves it to the back corner. “I won’t cause him physical harm, I won’t threaten his life or well-being, and I won’t kill him.” he leans a little closer, carding fingers through her loose locks. “Give me the city, my love, my wolf, my one and only…and Jim Gordon won’t be hurt.”

It is a painful compromise—he still owes Gordon for many, many offenses, insults, and injuries—but there is no other way. She read between the lines, heard the unspoken, and asking for “the city” includes Detective James Gordon. Iris will never agree to it, not if Gordon is left unprotected. The thought makes his stomach churn, but, as his father always said, love involves occasional negotiations.

And there are few things to compare with holding something over Gordon’s head, something he can’t do anything about and can’t change; owing Victor his life is half a fantasy brought to life. He nearly smiles, just at the thought.

“You promise?” Iris whispers, rising up to her knees, on equal height, eyes holding his gaze with scrutiny, seeking any sign of deception or manipulation. He leans forward, to kiss her brow, but she tilts back, escaping his reach; the gesture is clear in its silent message. She wants an answer, and she wants to look into his eyes when he gives it.

“You have my word,” he says, solemnly, holding her gaze without waver, “if I have yours.”

Now, the tension relaxes, melting away, softening her features. She delicately unwraps her folded limbs, hands sliding up his chest, draping herself over his thighs, locking fingers behind his neck. Eyes sharp, gaze piercing, lips soft and inviting. “I have watched others chain you, for years.” Iris says, very softly, words meant only for his ears. “And yet when we are together…I have seen differently. I have watched you catch your prey with grace and prowess, and then rip them apart without restraint, without control, with blood in your eyes.”

She shifts closer, just enough for her soft, warm, perfect skin to brush his scarred chest; the rush of heat is dizzying. “Never once did I stop you. Never once did I turn from you. That night, even at sixteen, when you came to me covered in that boy’s blood, my avenging angel…had you sought more, Victor, I would have been confused, uncertain, virgin in every way…but it would not have been forced.”

Oh… _oh._ That revelation does little to soothe the blood still burning in his veins. “Why then,” she continues, deliberately ignoring his reaction—he knows she can’t miss it, not when they are pressed so close together, “would I ever change things between us?”

“Say it.” He whispers, hands clutching with frantic need, seeking more, so much more, of the succubus drawing him back into desire’s web. “Say the words, Iris.”

Her lips brush his, tenderly, and then her teeth catch his lower lip, pinching slightly, and retract. The split skin reopens, and the metallic tinge tickles his tongue. “You are free, my tiger in the night.” She kisses him again; when she pulls back, her lips are stained red. “The city belongs to you. I belong to you. Protect me, defend me, love me, and I lay them at your feet. I hold nothing back from you, save James. Keep him safe, keep him untouched. Take the rest.”

“In what manner?”

She smiles. He has the urge to take those smiling lips and kiss her bloody. “I leave those details in your very capable hands.”


End file.
